


Hands, Among Other Things

by Dessert_Maniac



Category: Senki Zesshou Symphogear
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Backstory, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dessert_Maniac/pseuds/Dessert_Maniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's about people bumping into her, about a life that died over a decade ago, and about intertwined resentment and grief and love. </p><p>It's an anxiety attack and a caffeine rush and memories dogging her every step because she just can't bring herself to let them go.</p><p>It's not as clear-cut as she'd like it to be—though, to be fair, nothing in Maria Cadenzavna Eve's life has ever been clear-cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands, Among Other Things

### Hands, Among Other Things

She shivers herself awake, her bare arms cold and toes nearly freezing—she’s nearly falling off the edge, and Tsubasa hogs the blankets on the opposite side of the bed.

It’s going to be one of _those_ days, her sternum whispers.

The clock reads _5:34_ in the morning with only a minute left before the alarm blares; her throat is tight with remnants of some faded dream. Yes, it’s going to be one of _those_ days.

There’s cold water and stumbling and scalding coffee on her tongue and oatmeal with too much peanut butter that she forces down anyway. There’s Tsubasa with her tea and bright eyes and a detailed itinerary and muffins and oh, look at the time, it’s nearly seven and she’s going to be late for her recording session. There’s a goodbye kiss that lands on her cheek instead of her mouth because she turns away at the last second.

There’s hurt confusion in Tsubasa’s expression.

“Do not forget that you are meeting with the costume tailor at two this afternoon,” and then Tsubasa leaves with one last, lingering look. Tsubasa will probably spend the morning wondering what she did wrong.

Her knee is already bouncing restlessly from so much caffeine so early in the morning. Her eyes are itchy. Her feet are still cold even though she turned up the heater a bit (at least, she _thinks_ she did. She’s actually not sure).

She squints at the calendar. It looks like she doesn’t have anything planned for today, other than the costume fitting, and Tsubasa will be in the recording studio for hours.

What awful timing for one of _those_ days.

Going back to bed would be an option if she hadn’t already consumed so much coffee. Going to the studio sounds like a bad idea because Tsubasa and Ogawa will be there. Going for a walk might be the best option, then, since she has nothing else to do.

Maybe the sun will cheer her up—ah, but she already knows it won’t.

Can’t hurt to try, though.

For such a bustling city, there aren’t that many people where she’s walking. She puzzles over it for a few minutes—or a few seconds, maybe—because this really is an overflowing city, and then she gives up. It doesn’t matter, not right now. In fact, it’s a blessing.

Soft blue skies and wispy white clouds and the green of baby leaves greet her when she tilts her head upwards as she walks.

That’s nice.

But then there’s a shout and a bicycle bell’s ring carried on the wind, “Look out!”

She steps to the side just in time for a young man to careen past her, a young woman running behind him with shouted apologies to her; the young woman’s elbow brushes her arm in the most tangential of touches and in the next instant they are gone.

It’s enough to force her to a halt, one hand trembling over the patch of skin on her arm where they had touched and the other lax in surprise.

Of course, she’s self-conscious enough that she doesn’t stay frozen in the middle of the sidewalk for too long.

Ah, there’s a coffee shop (she has to brush aside her mother’s scolding in order to enter even though her heart’s still beating fast).

There’s a ringing bell and a smiling barista and only a handful of other people and too many options on the menu board; she goes for a black coffee, twelve ounces, no receipt, thank you.

“Here you go. Have a good day!” The barista slides her coffee to her across the counter, another blessing.

Hazelnut creamer for her sweet tooth, cup piping hot against her palms, and a seat with a window overlooking the street.

She stirs and stirs and stirs until she’s certain that she won’t burn her tongue—it’s already burnt enough from this morning.

Her knee starts bouncing again, but at least her toes are warm now.

It was an accident. How could they, perfect strangers, have known?

It’s one of _those_ days. She has to tell Tsubasa, should call her, should at least send her a text if she can’t bring herself to explain.

Boundaries are important.

Maybe she can say that and hope Tsubasa understands—except there’s so much _more_ that needs to be said, because she’s already tried explaining and failed.

Kirika, although she’d gone through similar beginnings, doesn’t have the same fear of touch. Mom had been exasperated (well-meaning, but exasperated) and there had been more important things going on, anyway. Serena hadn’t understood, either—Serena was the braver of them in every aspect. Even Shirabe, with her sky-high walls, isn’t _nearly_ so hyperaware of the people around her.

How to explain, then?

Grimacing at her coffee—too sweet—she mulls over the question. It’s an _important_ question: if she doesn’t find a way to explain soon, Tsubasa will pull away and their relationship will suffer; it’s already been three nights in a row.

Explanations don’t come easily to her. She’s not one for talking, not when it’s about her, though she supposes that’s everyone’s excuse for not talking.

But really. She doesn’t know how to explain without saying too much. Or maybe there isn’t such a thing as too much and she’s afraid of finding out for certain.

If she could explain, however, this is what she thinks she might say:

Sometimes it’s a conscious action, with her fingers resting as lightly as possible on Shirabe’s shoulder while a controlling, heavy hand clutches at her own shoulder. Sometimes it’s not, as she wakes up to find herself almost falling off the bed in a subconscious effort to escape Tsubasa’s suffocating arms, which had happened this morning.

Rough hands and long finger nails had scrabbled against her for the bread she’d stolen, calloused palms slipping into her own had reminded her continuously when all she had wanted was to forget, and heavy, meaty hands had steered her and her sister to and fro without regard to their protests and their pleas—those days are long past, but they live on in her body to this day.

Some type of muscle memory, maybe, like memory foam.

After all, she’s Maria Cadenzavna Eve, the girl who cannot surpass her sister’s death even a decade later. She’s the girl who was the figurehead and poster child of a terrorist organization; she’s the girl who had to draw the line somewhere, too many deaths too late.

Ver had noticed.

(And isn’t that unsettling?)

Frankly, his explanation is the best one so far. The villain, for all of his madness and all his villainy, had been a person once upon a time. In a surprisingly lucid conversation (when she hadn’t had so many doubts yet), he had said, “It makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it? All those blasted _hands_ on you, without asking, as if they have any right to your life!”

People brushing past her in a busy thoroughfare, fingers accidentally meeting as a cup of coffee is passed over the counter, shoulders and elbows and arms jostling as Kirika and Shirabe step closer to her in an unfamiliar world, and Nastassja’s almost non-existent hugs.

Currently, Tsubasa pressing against her, learning human touch for the second time in her life (isn’t it ironic that Tsubasa has the opposite problem as her?), her palms sometimes hot and sweaty and so _nervous_. Hibiki, before they had left for London, chaining her hands in both her own, cool to the touch. Miku, briefly patting her left arm, and Chris, constricting her in a hug for only a moment—both instances an eternity.

In the beginning, there had been Serena holding her hand. There had been other children shoving at her, at Serena. There had been firm grips around her bicep, rings biting into her skin, dragging her out of the Church and onto bitter stone.

Maybe she’s overreacting, she muses as she swallows the last too-sweet dregs of her coffee.

None of those touches had lasted very long—except Serena’s.

And maybe _that_ is the real problem. Her little sister, with the skin around her nails cracked, her palms riddled with so many callouses, and the backs of her hands too dry, haunts practically everything she does.

Perhaps it’s not about people’s touch at all. Perhaps it’s only about Maria Cadenzavna Eve, twenty-something years old and still missing her little sister.

But it’s not just that, either.

Resentment—that’s what it is. She’d endured Serena’s hand in hers because she’d been the older sister and older sisters are supposed to be brave so she might as well pretend that it’s all for Serena’s sake, really.

Which is it? Resentment towards herself, or resentment towards Serena, or resentment towards the world?

Of course the answer is none of the above and all of the above. Something along those lines.

A prodding at her shoulder—she jerks up, and the barista smiles uncertainly.

“Sorry, miss, but can you answer your cell phone? It’s disturbing the other customers.”

Her tongue is too heavy in her mouth, but she thinks she manages to reply, “Oh. Yeah. Sure. I’ll do that. Sorry.”

It’s only when she’s outside that she realizes she brought her empty cup with her and that there’s an insistent buzzing coming from her pants pocket—ah, that’s right, the barista had mentioned that.

 _Tsubasa Kazanari_.

She picks up.

“ _Hello? Maria? Are you there? Are you alright?_ ”

“Um,” is all she can say.

“ _Maria, you missed your fitting appointment_ ,” Tsubasa says, all worry and no rebuke. “ _Where are you? I can come pick you up._ ”

Good question; she’s not sure where she is, so she looks around, searching for a street sign. She’s actually kind of stuck on the fact that she missed her fitting appointment. Scratch that: she’s not even sure what day it is, honestly.

“ _Maria, are you still there?_ ”

“Y-yes.”

“ _Maria_ ,” Tsubasa sighs into the speaker, crackling static, “ _is there a shop nearby?_ ”

She nearly trips over her feet in turning around to the coffee shop she just left a few (maybe a few?) minutes ago; wow, she’s clumsy.

It must be the caffeine, she realizes, catching up to her now that she’s standing up.

“’Fine Roasts and Brews,’” she reports when she finally registers the sign above the coffee shop.

“ _I will be there promptly, Maria. Do you want to stay on the line, or…?_ ”

That’s hesitance in Tsubasa’s voice, isn’t it? Why is Tsubasa hesitant?

“O-okay,” she agrees, though she’s going to have to find a bench or something because now her knees are trembling and her legs might give out beneath her. “My eyes are tired,” she realizes then, and presses one palm against her right eye.

“ _You have not been sleeping well_ ,” comes the answer that nearly startles her into dropping her phone; she’d forgotten about Tsubasa.

But sleeping, that reminds her—it’s one of _those_ days again, isn’t it? That explains it—she must’ve let her coffee consumption reach unhealthy levels. Mom would be so disappointed in her.

Ah, but that’s a bad, bad thought.

She finds a bench, sinks gratefully onto it (she’s infinitely more thankful that no one is around), and even remembers to inform Tsubasa that she’s changed position a little bit.

“ _That is fine, Maria. Just, please remain there; I might take longer than expected, traffic is bad here._ ”

“Alright. Sure. I can do that.” She would close her eyes, but she has too much energy for that. Her knee is back to jittering, almost frenetic in its movement. That is definitely a sign that she’s taken too much coffee.

“ _Say, Maria?_ ”

“Hm?”

“ _Do you remember what happened this morning?_ ”

This morning…?

She grinds her palm into her eye again.

“N-no, sorry. Thinking makes me light-headed. Ask—ask me again. Later.”

“ _I am worried about you, Maria._ ”

She laughs at that, grumbles, “Bit late for that,” with the rest of her statement fading away into a sudden, prickling, yawn.

“ _Tired, eh?_ ”

“Mm.” Sort of. In between her limbs’ spasms—spasms? Since when?—and the tug for sleep in the back of her mind, she really is tired. The kind of tired that only comes from _those_ days.

“ _You will have to wait until we return to the apartment, I’m afraid, for a motorcycle is not the best place to fall asleep._ ”

Wait.

It’s one of _those_ days—days when any and all touch is unbearable because she keeps thinking these tangled thoughts of others touching her like they have any right to her life and that she needs someone to hold her, to keep her together—

“No,” she says, because of course she can’t tell Tsubasa all of that. “Can’t… can’t Ogawa, or someone, anyone, pick me up in a car?”

“ _Maria—_ ”

“Please, Tsubasa,” and there must be a note of desperation in her voice, or something, because Tsubasa doesn’t reply for too long a moment.

Her hands are shaking, sweating already at the thought of having to touch someone.

Too long a moment becomes too many minutes—she thinks; honestly, she’s not sure what time it is, let alone how much time has passed—with each passing moment setting her heart racing in a way her many cups of coffee have failed to do.

“Talk to me, Maria, please,” says Tsubasa’s voice, not from her cell phone, but rather directly in front of her.

Ah.

Tsubasa sits down, and she has to pull her knees away from Tsubasa’s and she has to scoot just a little bit back and yes, she feels a stab of guilt when Tsubasa looks at her with a wounded-puppy look that fades into serious concern.

Explanations. It’s high time for explanations.

Isn’t that why she’d come all the way here?

“Don’t touch me.” It’s a warning and a plea and an explanation all rolled into one.

Tsubasa nods, agrees, “I will not.” She even sits on her hands.

“It’s—” she stumbles before she can even begin, but Tsubasa nods again, so she continues, “it’s a weird tick. Of mine, I mean.” Her knee is all jittery. “And the coffee, too.”

She wipes her palms on her pants.

Soft blue skies and wispy white clouds and the green of baby leaves. It’s a spring day in London, with cars and exhaust and crowds just one street over. English, with a mess of accents, distantly registers in her mind.

Right, right: it’s not Poland. It’s not even Japan.

“Please,” Tsubasa murmurs, “go on.”

“Well. I mean, you see—I get. Anxious. About people touching me, I mean.

“It’s—I don’t know how to explain it. Something… something in between, I guess.” She shrugs. “There’s a thought, that people are touching me like they have any right to my life,” but that’s only part of it, there’s also, “there are lots of memories. Sort of like—like flashbacks, a little bit. And emotions, too.

“I used to hold Serena’s hand all the time—” there, yes, that, elaborate on that. “It was to reassure her, to reassure _me_ , and sometimes I hated needing it, sometimes I hated her for being so brave and for relying on me anyway, sometimes I hated the Church for refusing to help us, and mostly it was everything at once. And—and I don’t know.”

There’s a culmination, a conclusion, somewhere in there if she can only look deeply enough for it.

But she’s too tired.

And maybe she’s said too much—after all, doesn’t she hate the feeling of being so exposed, so vulnerable, in front of anyone other than herself?

“What about your reliance on coffee?” Tsubasa asks, not quite changing the topic, but also not quite addressing what she’d just said.

That’s fine. This question is easier (look at her, she’s actually got some part of her head all psychoanalyzed and figured out).

“It’s an ‘adult’ thing to do,” she admits, smiling ruefully in Tsubasa’s general direction. “Naturally, it became a crutch for me. I feel—a smidgen more confident in myself. It’s the placebo effect. Probably.

“But. I’m not usually so bad. I don’t know why….”

“Dr. Nastassja was declared legally deceased three days ago.”

Oh.

That makes sense—yes, that makes a lot of sense, if she bothers to think about it.

She has a track record of not being able to deal with death (it’s a track record of _one_ , one too many, plus the nameless and faceless deaths of strangers).

“Maria,” Tsubasa says in a tender tone, “I am glad that you have confided in me. I hope you know that I do not think any less of you. And—and I would like to embrace you, b-but only if you will it. We can wait here for as long as you need, Maria.”

And that’s all there is to say, isn’t it?

That’s all she can handle right now; that’s all she _needs_ right now (and maybe it’s all she’s ever really needed).

Later, she might try to explain better. Later, she might try to delve into her feelings about Mom’s death and Serena’s death and being halfway around the world away from Kirika and Shirabe and all that messy emotional stuff.

Later, she might ask Tsubasa to hug her.

For now, she only says, “Thank you.”

Her shoulders are relaxing, the tension she hadn’t even noticed is starting to bleed away, and her eyes are heavy with lost sleep while her heart rate slows down.

She’ll learn to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote in three hours instead of working on my other obligations; I'm very happy I managed to finish before I go to bed. There... honestly wasn't much of a point to the story, other than expelling some of my own anxiety. 
> 
> I think this story can fit in canon (disregarding GX), though I might have had my "Counting Stars" series in mind, since I took liberties with Maria's backstory.
> 
> Comments would be greatly appreciated!


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